Another Brick in the Wall
by Daniel Affaro
Summary: "Believe me. Here, the lucky ones die quick."
1. Interview

**-Transcript from an interview with a Program Co-Ordinator-**

* * *

 _(Jonathan Ledger sits opposite talk-show host Benjamin Brosnan; one leg crossed over the other. He reaches for a glass set onto a low table between them and takes a sip of water.)_

Ledger: Did you watch much wrestling when you were a kid? The show-y kind. Not the kind you see on the Olympics, where men roll around in leotards; I'm talking about broadcast wrestling.

Brosnan: I can't say I did. I take it you're a fan?

Ledger: Oh massively so. When I was little that's all I used to do. I would sit in the family room and stare up at the TV. And do you know why I loved it? Because anything could happen. Sure it was all fake, and I know that now. But back then? I remember one time there was this event. A Battle Royale they called it. Every wrestler in the league had to get on stage at the same time and just duke it out. It was great! Nobody was safe, even if they were allied with someone, there was nothing stopping them from turning on them like that.

 _(Ledger snaps his fingers before again grasping his glass and taking another drink.)_

Ledger: That's what I love about The Program. Anything can happen. And what's more, it's one step better than wrestling. It's real.

Brosnan: But some would argue that this-

 _(Images flash up onto a wall-mounted television between the two men. Photographs of bodies, lined up in duffel bags, appear one after the other.)_

Brosnan: -this is too real. Too much for some people. There are some people out there; some who would say that this is going too far. That The Program serves no purpose past the initial shock factor. What do you say to that, Jon?

Ledger: I'd say that's some high class bulls—t. Wouldn't you? Right, you listen here and tell me if I'm wrong about any of this. Ten years ago this whole country was royally effed.

 _(Cut to a close up of Brosnan's face; uncomfortable with the language Ledger is using.)_

Ledger: Am I right, or am I right? Debt was at an all time high, population figures through the roof. Not to mention youth crime. I mean, don't even get me started on that. So what's there to do? Well The Program worked pretty well for the Republic of Greater East Asia. Worked even better in Germany. So we decided to give it a try, and what do you know. For nearly a decade it's done a fantastic job. Hell, every year it just seems to work even better and better. And the kids that win? Stars. Every one of them. Would you rather be swallowed by the tide or let it carry you along? I know what I'd pick.

Brosnan: But -again- there are people out there that take exception to how it works. Surely you must see that? Hundreds of kids every year losing their lives is a pretty steep price for national stability.

Ledger: I'm not saying that it isn't. It's a sacrifice; a pretty huge one at that. But as far as I'm concerned, every one of these kids is a patriot.

 _(OC, the audience starts to clap.)_

Ledger: I mean it, I really do. Death is a horrible thing. But it's also part of life. And the deaths of these kids is as honourable a death as you can get. Other countries, they have conscription; thousands of youths drafted into the army. Do people say that's excessive? No. They're heroes. Doing a great service to their country. It's a matter of national pride. The Program is no different. It's our own unique form of conscription; I'd go so far as to say the best in the world!

 _(A few hoots split the air as the audience is roused once again.)_

Ledger: And yet, still, I'm called a butcher. As if I'm directly responsible for all of this.

 _(Ledger turns towards the camera, leans forward and stares down the lens.)_

Ledger: Let me tell you something: I have no part in what goes on, after we set them loose. None whatsoever; none of the Co-Ordinators do. Think of me like a doorman. I'm there when they arrive, I give them the usual speech. Tried and tested. Then I open that door. Nobody's forcing them to walk through it.

 _(Ledger breaks into a slight grin and sits back in his chair.)_

Ledger: They make that choice all on their own.


	2. Email

**An email to the Conductor of the Public Sector Combat Experiment; Program #6 of the Year 2016:**

* * *

Charles Freeman,

Further to our correspondence earlier this year, with regards to The Program to be conducted on the 22nd of July, I can reveal that the selected class will be drawn from the fourth school in district seven of the South East. Centre Number 61167.

Candidates to be included are chosen at your own discretion. I am however obliged to say that, considering the age of students selected for the previous 5 instances, it would make for more valuable results if the participants are of an age range between 16 and 17 years old.

The arena for participation has also been selected as that of the North West burrow of Statemore. Evacuation of residents is already underway, with the fence set for erection on June the 15th.

Control measures, as has been the case on your last two Programs, is that of the Guadalcanal-23. Shipment is due to arrive from the Republic of Greater East Asia on the 3rd of this month.

Regards,

Sebastian Wilson — Secretary of Defence


	3. Prologue

**Prologue: 21st July 2016 -09:00-**

The deafening whir of rotary blades roared through the air as the chopper made its descent. Clouds slowly dropped past the windows and the ground rose up to meet the treads.

Charles Freeman (Program Co-Ordinator) shifted listlessly in his seat. Behind his aviary glasses he surveyed the area around the landing site.

The rapeseed had been sheared back in a radius of close to twelve feet, to provide a clear surface for the helicopter. The vibrant yellow glare flashed brilliantly as the crop swayed in the heavy wind, bowing against the side of a nearby Jeep. To the southeast, past the bordering fence of the field, a swarm of houses dominated the horizon. In the opposite direction an electric fence, at least fifteen feet high, bisected the field. Wound around the top of the wire mesh, glinting viciously in the midday light, was a reel of barbed wire.

As the helicopter touched down on the sheared stalks, the side door slid open and Charles stepped out onto the uneven ground.

Plucking a lighter from the inside pocket of his jacket, he moved just far enough away to save the flame from the wind and sparked up a cigarette. Following behind him several men in military khakis flanked his form.

Inhaling the smoke, Charles took several more steps forward and pointed up at the fence. The cigarette flicked ash from between his fingers. "Are you sure that fence is high enough?"

The closest of the soldiers followed the gesture with his eyes and replied curtly: "Sixteen feet is the standard. It's also wired with five hundred volts."

"What about if they tried to dig underneath it?"

"Steel sheets have been buried ten feet down," the soldier stated. "Past Programs have shown that the participants usually give up after five feet. Maximum. Not to mention... As long as we have the collar, we don't even really need all of this." He broke into a smile and glanced sidelong at the Co-Ordinator, watching him as he removed his sunglasses. "This may be your first Program... But trust us. We know what we're doing."

 _It's my third, actually,_ his brain replied, sharply.

Thinking better of saying the statement aloud, Charles forced himself to return the wry smile and took another drag. Smoke fluttered from his nostrils, clouding around his face. The wind licked up a few strands of his slicked-back hair as he turned his gaze around, onto the houses in the distance.

"I take it the Community Centre is that way?"

"Yes, it'll be in Zone C-4," a second soldier replied. Fishing out a map, from the front pocket of his combats, he pointed out a red square and scratched at the side of his buzzed hair. "Our base is usually more centred in the arena, but because of the location this time, it was the only structure large enough to hold us."

Pushing over the cuff of his jacket, Charles checked the time on his watch. An Italian import, the Panerai Radiomir was cased in solid titanium. Easily passing a value of a hundred thousand, the timepiece cost more than all of his associates' yearly wages combined. A sleek and stylish model, it boasted a number of opulent features, while still being practical in nature. Water-resistant up to a depth of 100 meters; other features included a transparent caseback and anti-glare sapphire crystal.

It was his favourite watch.

"And the Game starts at midnight?" he clarified.

"Correct," the first soldier responded. Indicating the nearby vehicle, he tugged absent-mindedly on the strap of his Kevlar vest. "Shall we head to the Community Centre now?" Curling his mouth into a smile, he nodded back at the fence. "Or did you want to inspect the perimeter some more?" he added, mockingly.

Charles ignored the remark and, without a word, started to stride towards the Jeep. The man reminded him of a student he had once taught, back when he was a guest lecturer at a local university. There was a sly snark and an air of self-importance to the way that he spoke that, while irritating, Charles was easily able to brush off and ignore. Reprimand for the attitude could be delayed; held off on until he had forgotten the comments entirely. Then (at least in the case of his former student) retaliation would come in the form of overly harsh comments on the reports.

He considered contacting Sebastian Wilson and requesting a Court Marshall.

Better still, there was always the option of calling his Father.

Thoughts of possible punishments for the soldier filled his head, drowning out the scenery and slipping him into a daze for the majority of the drive. When Charles finally returned to his senses, the town hall was in sight and looming down upon the car.

A squat building, the Statemore Community Centre was all angles. Little more than two stories tall, the roof was slanted towards them at a downward angle, like the edge of a knife. Jutting out of the grey tiled surface, sticking straight up into the air, the windows extended out, the incline of the roof reversing in such a manner that if you were to examine the building from the side, the top would seem to take on the appearance of a check mark. Affixed to the side of the building and slanting in the opposite direction, a fixed canopy shielded the entrance from any threat of rain.

Every glass surface had been completely sealed off with steel shutters. The flat chrome surfaces glinted brightly in the light, granting the building a futuristic appearance. The automatic sliding door in the entryway had also been removed, replaced by a heavy metal one, fixed in place by large, strong hinges.

Inside most of the furnishings had been left relatively untouched, the main exception being the hall. The large room had been stripped bare; the only thing remaining on the walls a large whiteboard, recently screwed into place. Facing this board were a series of individual desks and chairs. Eight rows of five, spaced evenly apart, there were as many desks as there would be contestants.

After giving the hall a quick once-over, Charles moved back into the entryway and turned left. At the end of a corridor was a large meeting room. Like the hall, the appearance of the room had been drastically altered. Fixed to the walls were at least ten flatscreen televisions, and positioned back-to-back through the middle of the space were eight desktop computers. At the head of the room was a large desk; paperwork piled neatly atop it.

Taking his place behind the oak construct, Charles dabbed out his cigarette in the pre-prepared ashtray and smoothed back his neatly slicked hair. Gently grasping the paperwork, he spread the sheets out in front of him before picking up a remote control. Pointing it forwards triumphantly, he pressed the "On" button.

Immediately, the wall-mounted flatscreens all simultaneously lit up. Displayed across all of them were photographic images of forty Highschool students.

"Let the games begin," Charles muttered. A satisfied smile crept onto his face.


	4. 21st July 2016 -09:00-

**Chapter 0: 21st July 2016 -09:00-**

Peering out from behind a floppy lock of brown hair, Jacob Silver (Boy #4, Class 3A, St. Joseph's Catholic Highschool) surveyed the sparsely populated classroom. Mounted on the wall, a mass-produced plastic clock ticked away the seconds with regular clicks. The sound clacked through Jacob's ears, punctuating his weary thoughts. He regarded the half-empty room with vague interest, wondering when his turn would come.

Etched onto the whiteboard at the front of the room in sharp blue lettering was the phrase _**"Mandatory Vaccination: 08:30 - 12:00"**_.

It was one of the few things that Jacob actually liked about the government. State-funded healthcare was a luxury used to pacify the population. Often quoted in dubious "impartial" studies, and on morning talk shows and newscasts, the free medical treatment was regularly used as evidence that the system worked.

Students were regularly vaccinated against various different viruses and diseases, during their tenure at school, ensuring that they built up healthy immune systems to minimise sick leave once they were injected into the national workforce.

Moss green eyes, flecked with muddy brown, watched the second hand move around the face of the clock. Long having abandoned the pages of Metamorphosis, that still lay open upon his desk, Jacob's pupils moved listlessly.

Beneath the clock, a small group of girls chattered amongst themselves. Fragments of their conversation reached Jacob's ears, yet he paid little mind to them.

That was what he did best. Pay little mind to those around him.

A social chameleon, he held the unique ability to fade into the background of almost any group of people, regardless of size. That was the way he liked it. He preferred to observe people from the outside; to distance himself from the status quo.

Everything he did helped Jacob stave off interaction. Typically adopting a slouched posture, he had a habit of hiding his eyes behind his fringe. That, combined with how engrossed he attempted to seem in whatever he was doing, ensured that the only people that would make the effort to talk to him were those that shared his interests. Namely his penchant for literature.

Jacob liked classic novels.

It was how he first began talking to Owen.

Owen Taylor (Boy #8) first approached Jacob during their freshman year of Highschool. Unassuming and average, he nevertheless had a talent for conversation; something which Jacob was severely lacking. At least in terms of initiating one. He had traversed the room and sparked up a discussion on Jane Austen.

Jacob had been halfway through reading Sense and Sensibility.

Currently sat at his own desk across the room, Jacob could see the other boy's perfect posture. The same height as Jacob, at five feet and ten inches, the other boy managed to appear much taller as a result of the way he held himself. Neatly combed brown hair was pushed out of his face, leaving his smooth forehead and dull brown eyes bare to the elements.

Every time another student passed his desk, Owen would reassure them that their trip to the nurse's office would be alright. That it was just a shot.

Following the latest departure, from behind his fringe, Jacob watched them pass the desk of Boy #3, Johnathan Schultz.

Sat next to the door, the wannabe Greaser was busy combing his thick ginger hair into a pristine pompadour. Lathered with gel, the style hung slightly over his forehead, pointing down at his dark eyes.

Draped over the back of Johnny's chair was a thin leather jacket. He never wore the school-assigned black blazer, and the sleeves of his white dress shirt were rolled up to his elbows. The red and black tie draped around his neck was loose; the knot falling halfway down his chest.

Jacob still couldn't understand how the faculty allowed the boy to adopt the style that his did. Dissent and rebellion were drilled out of them so much in their formative years that it was rare to see anyone break from pattern in the way that Johnny did. At the very least not so openly.

The only person he could think of that was even close to rebelling, at least in terms of appearance, was Sarah Matthews (Girl #18) from class 3C, who dyed the tips of her blonde hair pink. But the only reason that she got away with it was because a lot of the staff were afraid of her. At just under six foot one (and this was beside the point, but the few times Jacob caught a glimpse of her in gym class, her body looked like that of a lightweight boxer), her body was covered in scars from what he could only assume were fights.

Sarah aside, he figured that Johnny was only allowed to dress the way he did was because of his good grades. When test results were published at the end of the school year, he always placed in the top ten.

Jacob watched him shift listlessly in his seat and pick up a pair of pencils. Humming under his breath, Johnny started to rap the stationary against his desk, as if playing the drums.

Finally averting his gaze from the redhead, Jacob next focussed on the teacher sat at the head of the class. The Homeroom teacher, Miss Eryn Fisher was poised elegantly behind her desk, the tips of her well-manicured nails clicking over the keys of the laptop computer set in front of her. A slight and slim woman, her highlighted hair was braided neatly behind her back in a fishtail plait and fell over the back of her white-spotted red blouse.

As he watched her through his hair, Jacob caught himself thinking that she was very pretty. Miss Fisher's cheekbones were high and her chin pointed; her dainty egg of a head resting comfortably on top of a slender neck. The hairs of her eyebrows were precisely plucked, framing her large blue eyes.

Some of the other boys in class may have said that her nose was a bit long, or that her top row of teeth bore a snaggletooth, but Jacob found that he didn't care about that. Distinguishing features didn't exclude someone from compliments; didn't automatically mean that they should be considered ugly. They added charm.

At least, that's what Jacob had always thought.

Miss Fisher's attention was diverted away from typing up her lesson plans as the twins approached her desk. Sho and Rin Homura (Boy & Girl #13) stood with their backs to the class as they spoke to the teacher.

No doubt Rin was begging for more funding for the Chess Club, and her ever-present shadow decided to accompany her on the arduous trip to the front of the classroom. Jacob was surprised that Luna Prakasa (Girl #5) hadn't followed her up to the front as well. The Captain of the club was very rarely seen without her Vice in tow. Even in the company of their many friends, they rarely strayed far from one another.

If it wasn't for the clique-y nature of clubs, and the tightness of the group, Jacob would have considered joining the Chess Club. Unfortunately, the closeness of all of the members scared him off. He didn't want to intrude, and was worried that they would think of his other interests as too "geeky".

All of a sudden, Jacob was snapped from his thoughts by the sound of a feminine voice calling his name.

Emily Moore (Girl #11, Class 3B) stood in the doorway beckoning Jacob over. Not being too good with needles, Emily had volunteered to escort all of the students to have their injections under the condition that she received hers last.

An extremely pretty girl, she wasn't much shorter than him, allowing Jacob to study her features as she walked him down the corridor. She had a round face and a small, cute button nose. The upper edge of her top lip dipped down in an elegant cupid's bow, framing her small white teeth. Pencilled around her eyes, black eyeliner accentuated the colour of her clear grey irises, and a touch of foundation concealed any blemishes that may have existed on her porcelain white skin. Pulled tight behind her head in a bun, her long hair had been bleached white blonde, while streaks of her natural pale brown occasionally flashed through.

"-can't be too bad, can it?" While he had been subtly watching her, Emily had started talking. Jacob only managed to catch the tail end of her sentence, and had to scramble to make out the rest.

Already not a great conversationalist, Jacob fumbled his words for a second. "Um- Uh... Y-Yeah it shouldn't be that bad."

 _Jacob Silver, King of the Um's!_ his mind narrated, sarcastically.

Emily either didn't notice the stammer or didn't care. "I mean, I know it's silly, but I'd just rather go last, you know? It helps me feel better."

"No, it makes sense," he mumbled in reply. "My sister hates shots too."

"I didn't know you had a sister." Emily turned to look up at him as they walked side-by-side. "Come to think of it, I don't know much about you... I'm sorry! I suddenly feel really rude."

"It's okay," Jacob half-smiled. "Not many people know much about me. I don't exactly talk much."

"Well you're talking now," the blonde girl replied, cheerfully reassuring him. "And you're not too bad at it. Bonus!"

Laughing for the first time since arriving at school, he arrived at the door to the Nurse's Office.

"Just head in when you're ready," Emily said. "After it's done you can head out of the other door and go home."

"Thanks," Jacob said, waving the pretty girl off. His cheeks flushed an every so slight shade of pink.

Suddenly stopping in her tracks, Emily turned back towards him. "After I get mine done, I'll come and find you," she said. "So you can tell your sister that they're not so bad."

"But you're still scared, aren't you?"

Emily laughed. "Petrified."

* * *

The Nurse's Office of St. Joseph's Catholic Highschool was a small and clinical smelling space. Positioned in the dead centre of the building, it had two doors on either side to allow easy access for all students. Along the right hand side of the room was a low cot, and parallel to the bed was the Nurse's desk.

Sitting down on the cot, Jacob removed his blazer and rolled up his sleeve while the Nurse prepared the injection.

A middle aged woman with a neatly trimmed brown bob, she was as much a fixture in the school as the classrooms and fittings. Jacob had grown up watching her tend to the other teenagers that made St. Joseph's their home.

Flicking the tip of the needle, she pushed out a few drops of the fluid to ensure there was no air left in the device. Pulling out a cotton swab, soaked in alcohol, she wiped the inside of Jacob's elbow clean before inserting the needle.

That was when he had a curious thought:

Aren't injections usually in the upper arm?

The way that she had plunged the needle into the base of his forearm was like she was aiming to inject the vaccination directly into his bloodstream. Which couldn't be right.

Throwing a quizzical look at the woman, Jacob suddenly realised something else: her eyes were red and puffed from crying. Moisture still clung to the skin beneath her lashes.

Opening his mouth to question exactly what was going on, Jacob felt the words die in his throat. Instead a breathy moan escaped his lips. A daze spread through his thoughts, settling on his eyes. His vision started to blur and a dull tingle raced through his limbs. Suddenly gripped by a wave of fatigue, his eyelids felt heavy, as if weights had been hooked to his eyelashes. Weightlessness took him and he lost control of his muscles.

Falling back onto the cot, Jacob felt as if he were skydiving.

Entering through the other door, he just about made out the forms of two men dressed in military combats. Jackbooted stomps filled his ears in a dull pulse, and their forms appeared shimmering and lucid.

Jacob whited out.


	5. 21st July 2016 -23:06-

**Chapter 1: 21st July 2016 -23:06-**

 _"As Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from uneasy dreams, he found himself transformed in his bed into a gigantic insect."_

The words of Franz Kafka pulsing in the forefront of his head, Jacob Silver (Boy #4) was roused from slumber. Initially, he considered the idea that he was still in fact asleep. The situation was just that bizarre.

While the lighting in the room was dim, he knew for a fact that he was sat down. Arms still hanging limply by his sides, he was slouched forwards, the side of his face pressing into the surface of what seemed to be a desk. The same mass-produced construct used in almost every school in the country.

He wondered if, maybe, he had fallen asleep at school. But that wasn't right. He had gone to the Nurse's Office for his vaccination. Talked to Emily on his way there. Perhaps he had fainted? So if he were to be waking up anywhere, then it would be the Nurse's Office. And this certainly was not the case.

His mind still addled from sleep, Jacob's thoughts ambled slowly along. He was far too confused and sleep-strung to even consider panicking.

Even the fact that he couldn't move his limbs left him strangely lucid. It reminded him, once again, of Metamorphosis. Of Gregor's inability to move upon his awakening.

 _"I can't turn!"_

Slowly, he regained feeling in his fingertips. The sensation crawled up Jacob's arms and washed through his head. Before long, he was able force enough effort to sit up.

That was when he noticed the other students.

Himself rising, in front of Jacob sat Johnathan Schultz (Boy #3), while to his right was a girl from 3C who's name he couldn't remember. From behind his back, Jacob could just about make out the slight ministrations of Sky Rochmil (Boy #5)'s voice as he groaned weakly.

But they weren't the only ones.

 _How many are here? Twenty? Thirty?_

His chest tightened in panic. He didn't know where he was, or how he got there. The fact that he had company didn't reassure Jacob. Far from it, it served to panic him even more.

How could the same thing have happened to so many other people?

A lump rose up in Jacob's throat. Swallowing hard, in an attempt to rid himself of it, he found his Adam's apple restricted.

Instinct took over and one hand shot up to his neck. Beneath his fingers, a smooth band had been wrapped around his throat. The cold bite of metal gripped his skin as he hurriedly dashed his hand over the slick surface.

Eyes finally having adjusted to the dim light, Jacob threw his vision across the room. Everyone else was wearing the necklace as well.

 _No. Not necklace. A collar. Collars. Like we're fucking dogs!_

Sat the next row over, diagonally in front of Jacob, he could see Stephanie Abbot (Girl #3) fiddling with her own collar. A tiny girl, her small fingers probed the construct desperately trying to figure out a way to remove it.

That was when the lights came on.

Blinding, searing light flashed through the large space, illuminating every inch of the room. Everything came into sharp focus, forcing Jacob to momentarily shut his eyes. When he eventually reopened them, he finally was able to get his bearings. A quick count of the other students revealed that there were 40 in total, positioned around the room at desks. Eight rows of five. These rows alternated between boys and girls. All were sat blurry-eyed and confused.

The ceiling was high and slanted at an angle, and the windows were strangely dark. Almost as if they had been painted over or blacked out. Positioned at the front of the room was a stout lectern, and behind it a whiteboard was fixed to the wall.

Already the confused students had started to mutter and talk amongst themselves.

"Where are we?"

"What are we doing here?"

"What time is it anyway?"

"I don't know, my watch is gone!"

"Wait, where's my phone? Has anyone seen my phone!"

"Is anyone seeing this? What the hell's that thing on your neck?"

The sound of clapping hands suddenly perforated the air, quelling the conversation to a slight murmur. A trio of men entered the room from the far right, passing in front of a floodlight and cutting the light with shadow. The closer they came to the desks, the more Jacob could make out their features.

Two of the new arrivals were kitted out in military apparel, combats swathing their forms, while slung over their shoulders were AR-15s. Both wore steely expressions, and a large automatic pistol to match. Belted to their left boots were trench knives.

Flanked by the two soldiers with similarly blunt faces, the man in the middle was young and bore a boyishly good looking face. The smooth skin of his cheeks and chin was flecked slightly with stubble. His eyes were dark, shining coldly from beneath his narrow brows, and his sandy brown hair was slicked back out of his face. As he walked, several sharp locks of hair tumbled down over his forehead before being pushed back into place. His face was calm and flat, betraying nothing.

Beneath a thick black overcoat, he wore a dark grey suit and a royal purple shirt and tie. It was obviously expensive; almost seeming to radiate opulence.

Under the clothes, his trim body moved deliberately and mechanically. A wiry strength clung to him.

A slight clack of metal reached Jacob's ears as the man continued to clap, the rings adorning both of his middle fingers clashing together.

"Rise and shine," the man called out. His clear voice bore a slight twang to it; his common accent standing at odds to his dressed up appearance. "Have you all had a good sleep? You're going to be thankful for it later, trust me."

 _What do you mean?_ Jacob felt like blurting out, but restrained himself.

Around him, all of the other students remained silent; locked into a confused stupor.

Taking up his place at the front of the room, the man stood behind the lectern and broke into an insincere smile. Gripping the sides, he leaned forward towards the students and continued to talk. "So?" he asked. "Are we all awake? Yes? Good."

That was when Sho Homura (Boy #13) shouted out. "Who the hell are you? What the fuck is going on?"

His harsh shout was what set everyone else off. Almost every other student started to call out questions, their voices overlapping in a deafening crescendo. Only a small number remained in silence.

Owen Taylor (Boy #8) kept quiet, his dull eyes locked on to the man, as he remained sat bolt upright. Gavin Watts (Boy #18) was similarly silent. His hulking bulk of a frame was crammed behind the desk at which he sat, and a hard expression gripped his features. Then there was Alexander Kemp (Boy #1). He was the one that looked jaded. Sarah Matthews (Girl #17) wore her typically steely expression, while next to her Boy #17: Jack Kim chewed the inside of his cheek.

Jacob's attention danced over them before returning to the man stood behind the podium. Nervous feelings washed over him. The man was far too calm. Almost eerily so.

As the questions and accusations were hurled at him, he remained perfectly still until it began to die down. Turning around, he picked up a black board marker and began to scribble onto the whiteboard in sharp italic text.

"My name," he began, as he wrote, "is Mr Charles Freeman, and I will be your new Homeroom teacher."

Within a matter of seconds, his name had been scribed on the board, giving him leave to turn back and face the students.

"Now I can imagine that you're all a bit confused, so I'll use small words." He spoke in a condescending manner; his sentences punctuated by twitches of the corner of his mouth, almost as if he was fighting the urge to laugh or grimace. Possibly both. "As you can all see..." He swung his arm wide, indicating the teenagers sat before him, with a sweeping gesture. "You're all set up like it's time for class. So, naturally, I'm going to need you all to pay attention. Today's lesson - or rather this week's lesson - is really a very important one. Survival is key. And the reason for that is, well, because what we're going to be learning... Is how to kill each other."

Jacob felt his heart lurch. It surged upwards so violently that he was terrified that he was going to vomit up the organ whole. As his throat expanded to draw in a panicked breath, he once again felt the restrictive choke of the collar.

Mr Freeman continued on in, strangely enough, a casual manner. As if what he had just said didn't bear the horrific implication of murder. He began to pace, moving around the lectern and sitting on the front lip of Laura Buggs (Girl #16)'s desk.

"You see," he said. "All of you have been selected for this year's Program."

Someone screamed.

A piercing shriek, it cut the air like a knife and ricocheted off of the angled walls. In the background, someone else was sobbing. A quick glance around revealed to Jacob that Emily Moore (Girl #11) was the one crying. Fat teardrops rolled down her cheeks, taking a large chunk of her eye makeup with them.

Sat across the room, Sarah's jaw clenched tightly. A prominent vein bulged in her neck. Realisation flashed over Sho's face; an identical expression appearing on his twin, Rin Homura (Girl #13).

"I can see that some of you are familiar with the concept," Mr Freeman said, flatly. "Though I doubt many of you know much about it, past what they report on the news. And, honestly speaking, that's just not very much, is it?"

At this point, Jacob barely registered his new "teacher"s words. They were a buzzing in the back of his mind. A fly flitting around his head. The words were there, they were noticeable. But compared to the bigger picture, they were all negligible.

He would have to murder his classmates. Kill them.

Either that or be killed himself.

 _But who would actually do that? Kill their friends? We've all known each other for years. Some of us since Elementary School. So there's no way! No way we could kill each other!_

Whether it were simply a nervous compulsion, or paranoia, Jacob again stole a glance around the room. His eyes flitted over the faces of students. Of his classmates. Only they suddenly didn't look like the people that he once knew. They looked intense and focussed. Some, he thought, looked ready to start killing there and then. As if they had resigned themselves to their fate.

Starting to sweat and choke on his breath, Jacob lifted one hand and began to fumble with the collar. He felt restricted. Trapped.

Like he couldn't breathe.

The panic had started to set in.

His eyes lost focus and his hearing was reduced to a dull muffle. The only sensation Jacob was still aware of was that of the metal choker digging into his windpipe. Cutting off his airway.

His fingers started to claw at the band.

He couldn't die here.

There was no way that it was real. He had simply fallen asleep or passed out in the Nurse's Office. It was all just some kind of sick dream.

Not in a million years would Jacob have ever been chosen for The Program. The systematic slaughter of Highschool students. He had never been this lucky before, so it didn't make sense for him to start now.

Having your class drafted for the annual murder games was at least a one in a hundred thousand chance. And Jacob had never so much as won a pack of gum at a local raffle.

 _It's not real! It can't be real!_

Had Jacob been paying heed to Mr Freeman's words, he would have noticed the shift in the teacher's tone. The sudden weight to his voice.

"Now before we begin, I need to tell you all something important. And that's about the collars that you're wearing. You see-"

Jacob's right index finger slipped underneath the metal band.

Charles' voice was eclipsed by a deafening crack.

The front of the choker exploded so violently that Jacob's body was shocked backwards. His chair skidded across the floor, screeching out yet more noise to accompany the blast.

Jacob's throat was completely crushed by the detonation, and a portion of his lower jaw had been completely blown off. Teeth shot through the room like enamel bullets, and blood doused the back of Johnny's leather jacket.

As Jacob's head arched backwards on what remained of his neck, Sky was left staring into the dead and vacant eyes of the boy who had once sat in front of him. The feminine looking boy instantly started to tremble and shake in horror.

Seeing the sudden explosion from across the room, Charles broke into a laboured sigh. "You should have let me finish. I was going to tell you not to play with the collars. Because, if you try to remove them... Well, they explode."

This time, everyone started to scream.

* * *

 **-39 Students Remaining-**


	6. 21st July 2016 -23:11-

**Chapter 2: 21st July 2016 -23:11-**

Charles Freeman broke into a halfhearted sigh as, all around him, the students began to scream. A number had even jumped out of their seats and tried to run for the door, only to find it locked from the other side.

Waiting for several seconds for the screams to subside, Charles flicked his eyes around the room. His dark pupils swallowed the glare of the floodlights as they moved across the faces of the students; contorted in horror.

"Okay, that's enough," he muttered under his breath.

Reaching out to the side he grasped the large automatic pistol, strapped to the belt of the soldier to his left, and drew it. Before the soldier could react, he cocked the weapon and pointed it up into the air.

A small flame flickered from the barrel as the sound of an explosion cracked through the large room. Reverberating off of the flat walls, the gunshot rattled the ears of the students and shocked them into silence.

"Shut up and sit down!" Charles shouted. Despite his raised voice, however, his expression remained level and controlled.

As the collective of teenagers turned towards him, identical shaken expressions on their faces, the soldier who's weapon he had stolen snatched the gun back. Charles ignored the gruff man and pointed down at the desks in front of him.

"I believe I told you all to sit," he said, an air of finality to his voice.

While some of the students slowly began to follow his orders, some remained standing. They stared back at the body of Jacob Silver (Boy #4); his throat crushed, his jaw smashed, his eyes rolled back in his head. Blood stained his white shirt, so that it matched the stripes of the tie that he wore. Dangling between the crushed bone of his bottom jaw, a fat pink tongue glistened and dripped fat drops of blood down onto the floor. The very sight of his disfigured corpse repulsed them to the point that they dared not venture back towards the desks, much less sit next to it.

"Hm..." one of the soldiers next to Charles hummed, raising one eyebrow. "Something tells me they don't quite understand the severity of disobeying you. Do you think I should bring them in now?"

Barely responding to the question, Charles shrugged. "Do whatever you want."

Smirking, the soldier grabbed hold of a radio pinned to his bulletproof vest and spoke into it. "Unlock the door and bring them in."

The sound of grinding metal filled the large room, as the doors were unbolted. The students still stood by them leapt back in surprise as a swarm of soldiers stormed into the room. Dragged alongside them were several people that the students knew all too well.

Their teachers.

Lined up at the front of the room, and held at gunpoint, they looked like they had been put through hell. Miss Fisher had a split lip and a black eye; her pretty and elegant face beaten and bruised black. The English teacher Mr Byrns was missing an ear, as well as several teeth. Then there was Mrs Vlok, who's pretty young face had been smashed beyond recognition. Beside her, their art teacher Mr Buggs' hair was coagulated with blood from a deep wound on the top of his head.

Seeing her Father, stood at the front of the room and beaten half to death, Laura Buggs (Girl #16) let out a strangled sound from inside her throat. "D... Dad...?"

Charles began to pace around the front of the room, his voice eclipsing the sound of Laura's stunned gasp. "Everyone still standing... Every time I ask you to sit down, and you do not comply, one of your teachers is going to get hit."

The students still stood in the middle of the room shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. Lily Force (Girl #19), a girl with dark skin and glossy black hair, narrowed her eyes hesitantly, at Charles' threat. Taking a deep breath, she moved uncertainly.

When she did not return to her desk, one of the soldiers lifted the butt of his AR-15 and smashed it into the face of Mr Buggs. Crying out in pain, he bent forwards at the waist and clasped his crushed nose.

Laura shrieked and lurched out of her chair, in an attempt to run to her father.

Charles' expression didn't falter. "Sit down."

This time one of the soldiers struck Miss Fisher, with the back of his gloved hand. The pretty young woman spat blood onto the laminate floor.

Stopping in her tracks, Laura's tear-filled eyes placed her father's own. While he didn't speak, the look they held pleaded with her to return to her seat. It was as if he knew that if she did not, then something far worse would happen to her.

Gavin Watts (Boy #18) moved his large frame quickly. As he moved away from the door, he gently clasped Lily by the arm and hurriedly nodded back towards the tables. Glancing over his shoulder as he walked, he locked eyes with Sho Homura (Boy #13) and shook his head, prompting the smaller boy to follow suit.

One by one, the students returned to their allocated seats.

Taking a second to look over them all, Charles twisted the corner of his mouth into a slight smile. "Well, at least you're learning."

Jerking his head slightly, he indicated for the soldiers to leave the room. Before long, the stomping of jackboots and clacking metal filled the air as the collection of privates ushered the teachers from the room and locked the door behind them.

"I hope that this means you'll all be taking this a bit more seriously now," Charles said, sweeping one hand back through his hair and moving back behind the lectern. "I'll allow that outburst this once, considering the surprise of Mr Silver over there blowing himself to kingdom come. But remember this: Impulsive actions from this point on _will_ get you shot."

Now all sat at their desks once more, the students shot him a mixture of expressions. Some were hardened in outrage, others contorted in fear. However, the ones that Charles took note of were those that, bizarrely enough, looked calm.

Keeping one eye on the jaded students, Charles continued. "So... Getting back onto topic — and believe me when I say that I'm operating on a time limit here — I think I was just getting onto the subject of the collars, before Mr Silver decided to give us a demonstration. As you have just seen, any attempt to remove them will result in explosively lethal consequences. But don't think that you can get around that by short-circuiting them or something like that. You'll find that they're completely waterproof, as well as anti-shock."

Placing his hands on the lectern before him, Charles leant forwards.

"Now, aside from obvious control means, these collars actually perform a very important function," he continued. "They all contain a GPS tracker, so that we can follow your movements inside of the arena, and monitor your life signs. And I suppose you're thinking: 'Why would they want to do that?' Well, first off this allows us to tell who has died; this we will be broadcasting to you via PA system, every six hours. It also lets us know when the game is over. And finally, and this is the most important reason, it lets you know how long you have left to live."

A number of the students recoiled in their seats at this statement.

"If one of you doesn't die every twenty four hours, then all of your collars will explode and everyone dies. However..." He let the word hang in the air as he analysed the expressions of the teenagers' faces. "If, after all of the killing is done, one of you is still alive... That person gets to go home. Not only that, you also receive a lifetime pension as well as an autographed certificate from the President himself. And, if certain members of the government take a fancy to you, you could even manage to have some strings pulled so that you land your dream job." He smiled. "It's not that uncommon. Past winners have gone on to become actresses, models... Bigwigs in banks. The possibilities are endless, if you just put your mind to it."

Sat on the furthest edge of the desks, Sarah Matthews (Girl #17) balled her hands into fists so tightly that her knuckles turned white. Falling across her face, a bright pink lock of hair pointed down sharply towards her dark hazel eyes, contorted in anger.

Turning around, Charles picked up a black marker from the lectern and drew a large square on the whiteboard.

"On to the logistics of the game," he continued. "You are in an arena with a perimeter of roughly ten kilometres. It was once a countryside housing estate, but the residents have long since been evacuated, so you don't have to worry about collateral damage." He reached up and proceeded to draw a lighting bolt symbol next to each of the four sides of the squares. "Escape is ill-advised. The perimeter has been surrounded by twenty foot high electric fences, and steel plates have been inserted underground." Charles glanced over his shoulder and flashed a brief smile. "But I guess the collars should be motivation enough to not stray out of bounds."

Hearing the statement, a number of the children tensed up. A current of fear coursed through their bodies, searing their nerve endings red raw.

Rim Homura (Girl #13) looked to the side and met the identical gaze of her twin brother. Concern lay behind her eyes, matching the worry for her that Sho wore on his face.

On the opposite side of the room, Boy #5, Sky Rochmil looked as if he was about to burst into tears. A large clot of blood, from where Jacob's collar had exploded just in front of him, still clung to Sky's face. He was so shellshocked that he barely registered the deep red clump; not bothering to wipe it away.

Sat beside him, Luna Prakasa (Girl #5) reached across the aisle and gasped his dangling fingers; squeezing them in a reassuring manner. All the while, her eyes didn't stray from the front, so as to not alert Charles or the soldiers to what she was doing.

Two rows over, at the very front of the room, Luna's older sister Soliel (Girl #6) quickly glanced back to check and see if she was alright. Her expression was hard and her eyebrows low. Being eleven months older, she had taken the opportunity of being in the same grade as her younger sister to do everything in her power to watch over Luna and protect her.

While a number of the students were sharing looks and encouragement with each other, Charles had drawn a basic grid pattern across the square on the whiteboard. He had labeled the top with letters from A to J, and the side with numbers 1 to 10.

"Like I said, you will be let out in the middle of an estate. I will be overseeing your progress from here in the town hall." He drew an X inside the square labeled as C-4. "You are all free to use the houses and structures as you see fit, so if you decide to hole up somewhere, there are plenty of free houses... Though I would advise against staying anywhere too long, for the following reasons." Charles turned around and indicated the illustration behind him. "As you're sent out, you'll each be provided with a bag that includes various apparel. Included in this bag will be food, water, one randomly selected weapon, and a map that looks something like this." He broke into a mockingly concerned smile. "Please do not lose the map. If you do, you won't be able to check your position and identify Dead Zones." Charles snatched up a red marker from the surface in front of him, and scribbled out one of the grid squares. "Every six hours, when I tell you who has died, I will also be broadcasting at which times certain zones will be designated Dead. 'G-5 will be Dead at 11:00!' Or something like that. If you are not out of the zone by the time it becomes active..."

The students all knew what he was going to say.

"Then your collars will explode." Charles lifted his arms to his sides, to indicate the building surrounding them. "The zone containing this building will also become active ten minutes after the last of you leave. To discourage the more overzealous of you from turning your weapons on me and my friends here."

Clapping his hands, the instructor prompted the doors to open once again. This time, a soldier entered pushing a gurney. Piled on top were dozens of duffle bags. Some of them were distorted in shape, sections sticking out at odd angles because of the objects contained inside.

"On the subject of weapons," Charles said, walking up beside the trolley covered with bags, "they range from knives to fully automatic guns... Along with a few surprises thrown in. As you leave, you will each take the bag off of the top."

Reaching inside his jacket, Charles withdrew a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. Sparking up one, the homeroom teacher took a drag and blew smoke out slowly.

Waving the cigarette between his fingers around, he addressed the students. "You'll be leaving here at two minute intervals, proceeding in order of your seating arrangement. Boy, girl, boy, girl, and so on." Pulling a small envelope out of his pocket, Charles puffed on his cigarette once again. "The first one of you to leave has been randomly selected, so we'll be finding out who they are shortly."

Continuing to smoke, Charles eyed the room one final time.

A number of the students looked like they were about to throw up; nausea clear and apparent on their faces.

Others looked outraged. Laura, sat almost in front of him, was staring at Charles with a mixture of hatred and despair. The use of her father as a tool to silence the students had clearly flipped some kind of switch on her.

Still more were uncontrollably sobbing; boys and girls both. Girl #11, Emily Moore was crying so hard that her face had turned bright red, and her eyes were almost permanently shut. Streaks from her mascara streamed down her cheeks.

Several of the teenagers looked determined. Whether this was an indication for their willingness to murder, or of their opposition to the government, Charles wasn't sure. Still, he made special note of those students. Ryan Archer (Boy #6) was one such student. His brows were lowered over his impossibly dark eyes as he glared up at the instructor.

Alex Kemp (Boy #1) was impossible to read. It was as if something empty dwelled behind his eyes. An absence that swallowed anything that encroached. Like a black hole.

Charles committed that one to memory.

 _Number one..._ he caught himself thinking.

Boy #17, Jack Kim, put his hand up. A number of the eyes in the room snapped towards him. Seeing him, Charles raised one eyebrow.

"I have a question," the boy said.

"Fire away," Charles replied, with a smile.

Jack locked eyes with him, not straying for even one second. "So the only way we can go home is to kill everyone else?"

Exhaling a cloud of smoke, Charles raised one eyebrow. "Those are the rules. So... Are we ready to begin?"

Stubbing the butt of the cigarette out on the podium, the young man tore open the envelope that he held and pulled out a small card.

"Okay, the first student to be heading out will be..." He flicked his eyes down to a student sat at the front of the room. "Girl Number Thirteen. Rin Homura."


	7. 22nd July 2016 -00:09-

**Chapter 3: 22nd July 2016 -00:09-**

Sprinting around the corner of a junctioning road, Rin Homura (Female Student #13) gritted her teeth, as incredulous tears poured from her eyes. Slamming into her back with every stride she made, the thumping of the duffle bag was all she could concentrate on. Inside, something hard and metallic smacked against her spine.

Finally stopping her blistering pace, Rin fell to her knees. A strangled breath choking in her throat, she fought back a sob.

Thoughts of Charles Freeman calling her name filled her mind. The way his mouth twisted into a grin, as he looked down on her and indicated the door.

 _Randomly selected my ass!_ her distraught mind screamed, as tears streamed down her face. _They picked me first to get me away from Sho!_

Rin very well may have been right. She remembered glancing over at her brother, sat beside her, and seeing his face contort as he realised that he would be the last one to leave.

Her lip quivering, Rin sat back and leaned against the wall of the building behind her. To her right, moonlight licked the waxy surfaces of leaves, decorating a stout shrub. A chilling wind sliced at her skin, and she started to tremble. Whether this was due to the cold, or because of fear, was difficult to determine.

All around her, darkness swallowed the scenery. In spite of the moonlight, shadow lay upon everything, playing havoc with her senses and ruining her already poor night vision. From within the deep absence, Rin was assaulted by sound. The lack of sight dialled her hearing up to eleven, to the point where even the slightest sound drew her attention and roared in her ears. The rustle of leaves may as well have been a crescendo of soldiers marching. Preparing to gun her down. The cry of a bird caused her heart to seize up in her chest.

Rin was petrified.

While definitely the more open and social of the twins, she made a point of not trusting anybody. No one except Sho. And now he was gone. Doomed to leave as far apart from her as possible. When all around her, enemies lurked. Children like her. Innocent, yes. But all just as terrified. All wanting to go home. All wanting to live. And fear is a dangerous thing. Fear can make you do anything.

And that's exactly what Rin was afraid of.

A classmate so addled and possessed by fear that they would kill her on sight.

She was terrified of being attacked. Of being killed. Killed without even seeing Sho; without getting to say goodbye.

Rin knew all about The Program. Before their emigration, her family had lived in the Republic of Greater East Asia. She grew up hearing stories of the battle royale that claimed the lives of two thousand Junior Highschool students every year. She grew up watching the local news reports, ticking off the dead and listing how they had met their end.

 ** _Shot, stabbed, strangled, bludgeoned..._**

Her body continued to shake. Gripping her arms tightly, with her slender fingers, she tried desperately to stop herself. But it was no use. It had already taken her. Fear gripped her like a vice and shook her, like an animal shaking the life out of its prey.

Tears rolled down her face in fat drops, bouncing along the curves of her profile with every shudder of her spasming muscles. Under the moonlight, they shone with an evil light.

Sho had always been there. Ever since they left the womb. He had been her shadow. Her protector. Even when it seemed like she was the one looking after them both, he was there to help her though it.

And now he wasn't. Now her shadow was the looming figure of death, ready to reap her in all its visceral glory.

The thought of Jacob Silver dying in the classroom smacked into her like a truck. The blood dominated her memory, and the way he was left in his seat to rot made her feel wrong and twisted. Rin barely knew him; hardly spoke to him. But that wasn't the point. What struck her was the finality of it; the horribly fragility of life. One second he was there, and the next he was gone. Forever.

It made her think of her own death.

Whether she would meet the same fate: Killed by the collar, without even knowing what was happening. Suddenly feeling all of that pain out of nowhere, and then everything going dark.

Or perhaps it would be something altogether more sinister: Murdered by a classmate, desperate to go home. Desperate to live. Just like her.

Moving automatically, Rin's hands fumbled with the zipper of her duffle bag. The sound of metal teeth, clumsily pulled apart, roared in her ears and eclipsed the sound of her breathing. Fingers, delving through the contents, came to rest on something hard and cold.

Feeling the shape, her mind instinctively settled on one thing: Gun.

And in that moment, the word was all that she needed. It was a means of defence. Something that she could use to fend off her crazed classmates. Something that would help her live.

Fishing it out, Rin examined the weapon under almost complete darkness.

Vaguely resembling a revolver, it was squat and stout, bearing a hammer that seemed far too large for the small gun. She only realised exactly what it was when she felt the wide barrel.

Reaching back into the bag, she fished out a handful of large cylindrical shells.

 _No, not shells,_ she thought. _Flares_.

What Rin Homura held in her hand was the last thing that she wanted. Just firing it would be like lighting a huge beacon ("Here I am, come and kill me!").

The weapon she had been designated was a flare gun.

* * *

Inside the Community Centre, Charles Freeman snapped his lighter shut and dragged down on the most recent of many cigarettes. A veil of smoke swam around his head, partially obscuring his eyes as he watched Jack Kim (Boy #17) grab his assigned bag and leave the room.

Turning his attention back to the students still sat at their desks, he noted a number of hollow expressions. As if they were shell shocked. Yet more were silently weeping.

A tweak of a smile twitched in the corner of his mouth.

He wondered how many of them would end up going crazy. Charles made a mental note to place some bets, after the last had been sent out. Figuring out the odds was always easier when he had a chance to see the contestants up close.

Every so often, he watched as one of the students turned their attention to the mutilated body of Jacob Silver; still sitting up on the far side of the room. The smell of his blood hung in the air, teasing Charles' senses like fresh cut copper. Ribbons of metallic scent wound through his nostrils and shot past the lingering nicotine, sparking something instinctive in his brain.

Checking his watch, he waited for the two minute mark to roll around once again, before calling out the next student's name.

"Girl #17, Sarah Matthews."

Rising to her feet, the girl locked eyes with Charles and didn't break eye contact until she had collected her bag. That was something that he wasn't used to. Defiance came with the territory, however something about the way that the girl held herself pushed the idea of a challenge. Less the air of a petulant child, and more of an equal waiting to front him out and prove him wrong.

Taking off at a sprint, Sarah's pink locks of hair flared behind her and she disappeared out of the heavy doors, into the dark of the hallway beyond.

Watching her go, Charles allowed himself to feel impressed.

He wondered how long she would last.

 _Definitely longer than some of them,_ he thought, stealing another glance around the room. A lot of them were crying; not just the girls, but the boys too.

Gavin Watts (Boy #18) was the next to depart. His large and muscular frame moved quickly to the front of the hall, and he grasped the duffle bag without a word. He wore a stern look to his lightly stubbled face, but his eyes betrayed something else. An air of concern that Charles noticed.

He too would be one to take note of. Not for the chance of winning (though Charles didn't sniff at the boy's chances), but for the entertainment he would gain from watching Gavin. This was a young man with a goal.

The Co-Ordinator couldn't wait to see what it was.

Contestants with a mission in mind were always far more entertaining than those that camped down and hid.

* * *

Frankie Murrey (Girl #15) sat hugging the weathered fabric of her designated bag tight to her chest. The thick eye makeup that once decorated her lashes and lids had smeared with her tears, running down her face before being swiped aside from her cheeks.

A shiver prickled down her bare thighs, and goosebumps sprang up in nodes across her smooth skin. Despite the sunny July weather of the day, the cloudless night had spurred a sudden chill. The black kneesocks that she wore offered little in terms of warmth, and her pleated skirt was bunched around her waist as she sat.

The only solace that she drew was that she was inside. Away from the wind, and somewhat insulated from the cold.

Not the most popular girl in the St Joseph's student body, Frankie had fled the moment that she left the town hall. Taking roads at random, she paid little heed to her surroundings. It was only after five minutes of running that she finally finally realised her error. She was making far too much noise.

Anyone listening would have been able to pick out the clack of her footfalls, and that was a bad thing. People on the lookout for victims would be drawn to them. They would home in on the sound and come, ready to kill her.

Slowing her pace, Frankie had scoured the area for a good hiding place before eventually settling on a house.

The front door was open, no doubt left that way by the owners that had been evacuated, which meant that she didn't have to break a window to gain entry. That was something she was glad for. Smashing one of the panels in the door would have been akin to screaming her location into the night.

Walking through the porch, Frankie had almost tripped on a discarded cluster of shoes. Seeing the forgotten footwear made her feel like she was invading someone's home.

Strictly speaking, she wasn't exactly wrong. Despite the mass evacuation, to provide the location for their "game", the place had once been somebody's home. Remnants of their lives still remained, that gave Frankie a snapshot of the people that had once lived there. It made her feel like an intruder.

The only thing that would have made it worse was if the plates had been left out in the dining room. Frankie thought briefly of a ghost story she had heard as a little girl, about a ship whose inhabitants had vanished overnight, leaving their belongings and uneaten meals out, as if they were spontaneously spirited away.

Retreating deeper into the depths of the house, Frankie had slipped into the cupboard under the stairs and closed the door behind her.

Now sitting, cowering in the corner of the small space, she continued to silently cry.

Frankie knew that they would come for her eventually. It was inevitable.

The rules were that one person had to die every twenty four hours. If they didn't, then everyone would die. And the only way to make sure of that was to kill your classmates. Frankie was well aware that people would be sacrificed.

She predicted the thought process of her fellows. That nobody would care if Frankie Murrey died.

After all, nobody liked her.

Even though people talked to her, nobody so much as paid her a second glance. She was nothing to them, not even worth acknowledging.

Sure, boys looked at her. Ogling her legs as she walked around the school in her short skirt. She would be lying if she said that she didn't like that. It made her feel wanted. But that was all they did: Looked. None of them talked to her; too intimidated to say more than four words.

The girls hated her. Not that they would say it to her face. They whispered behind her back and muttered as she walked by. She was a slut, out for nothing but attention.

Frankie hated the way that they all looked at her. Like she was worth less than them.

Her acrylic-tipped nails dragged along the fabric of the bag, as her fingers tensed. The small muscles of her arms grew stiff as a wave of tension passed along the limbs.

She knew that if anybody would become a target, then it would be her. The girl that nobody wanted around. Boys and girls both would turn their attention her way, in search of an easy target. Someone that wouldn't be missed. Her, they could justify killing.

Moving from their interlocking position around the bag, Frankie's fingers traced along the curvature of her right wrist. Etched onto her skin in looping italic letters was a single three letter word: " **Mum** "

Memories of her mother entered her head, playing almost in slow motion. They were fond memories, despite their mundane nature. In one she was ironing, of all things. Frankie remembered the way that her mother looped the shirts over the end of the board, ironing out the creases. Steam hung in the air, and she smiled over at her through the translucent cloud.

It was three years since she had died.

Even until the end, their lives had been nothing but mundane normality. No government protests, no thrilling stories of her parents escapades. Her mother had been average and unassuming. Beautiful in her reservation.

The late stage cancer was a shock, but past that it was all expected. It was discovered that her mother had been living with bowel cancer for years; they only diagnosed her after it had spread to her liver. And by then it was too late.

As crushing as it was, though, Frankie did her best not to let it affect her. She had to be strong, otherwise it would be too much.

It was hard going, though. Acting as if nothing was wrong; barely any support from her Dad. He had it worse than anyone, suddenly having to handle twice as many bills as before, all the while looking after them both. Still, however, she felt resentment.

There was nobody there to help her deal with it.

Well, almost nobody.

Stupidly, she thought of _him_...

Frankie gritted her teeth and cursed her own stupidity. She couldn't believe that she let herself fall into that kind of trap. He was nice and kind, but that was it. Nothing more and nothing less.

The trouble was that that was exactly what she needed.

Mr Hackenan was a teaching assistant at St Joseph's, fresh out of university and bright-eyed with optimism. Friendly and personable, there wasn't a student at the school that didn't know him.

Not the best looking guy in the world, though not bad looking either, he was relatively unassuming in appearance. Frankie doubted that any of the girls would take a second look at him. Truth told, she wasn't terribly attracted to his appearance either.

What drew her attention was how he treated her. Different to anyone else. He didn't care what other people thought of her, or how she came across. He just treated her like any other student.

Not the best student academically, Frankie struggled a lot with her classes. It didn't help that the teachers barely paid her any attention. She wasn't one of their prized pieces, and if she wasn't offered any help, then what was the point in trying?

Mr Hackenan saw her lack of progress and pulled her aside in one of her English lessons. He told her that he knew she could get higher grades if she put her mind to it, that he had a digital copy of a revision guide, and that he could email it to her.

It seemed insignificant to anyone watching, but it meant the world to her. She loved that he wasn't judging her; treating her like everybody else did. And at the same time, she hated that that was all it took to make her feel that way.

Lifting her head, Frankie let out a single long breath, in an effort to clear the thoughts from her mind. Thinking about him was doing her no good, in fact it was probably amplifying the emotions storming her body.

The thoughts made her realise just how alone she was. Made her realise that everybody else was out to get her. Ready to kill her, just to extend their lives by a few hours.

Sickness churned in her stomach at the horror of it all.

She didn't want to die.

Frankie considered ripping open the bag that she clung to, and picking up her weapon. With it, she could protect herself and kill those who came after her. Stop the horde of murderous classmates out for her blood.

The idea was dismissed just as quickly as it came.

No matter what, Frankie couldn't buy in to the idea of killing. If she did, it meant taking someone away from their family, and she knew how it felt to lose a loved one. She couldn't inflict that on somebody else. It was just so fundamentally wrong. Taking a life was the worst thing in the world.

The very thought of the weapon, hidden from view by a flimsy zipper, repulsed her.

Frankie considered throwing it away.

But that meant going outside. Revealing herself to the horde coming for her.

And she wasn't ready to die.

Not yet.


	8. 22nd July 2016 -01:06-

**Chapter 4: 22nd July 2016 -01:06-**

Girl #8, Jade Turner, hesitantly stepped out of the town hall, into the bitter night air. The white walls of modern, mass-produced housing caught the light of the moon and dominated her vision, threatening the prospect of snow blindness. All of the street lights were out, leaving everything else swallowed by darkness.

Her dark eyes nervously flitted around the area, searching for signs that those that left before her had hung around. Deep in Jade's chest, her heart hammered against her ribcage in a blistering rhythm.

The very idea of killing her friends was ludicrous and unthinkable. The worst thing that she could think of.

But that didn't mean that they would think the same. One of them could very well have been waiting outside the school, ready to kill anyone as they came out. Mr Freeman had explained the rules to them, but hadn't clarified when the "game" (Jade hated that word, but what else could she use to describe it — it was all so ridiculous) would begin. Surely then that meant that killing right out of the door was allowed. And that people would take that option; wanting to get it all over and done with, and go home.

If so, what then? Would she fight back? Kill the person that was trying to kill her?

 _Yes_ , she thought. _If anyone tries to kill me then I have to!_

The contents of the duffle bag dug into her chest, bruising her ribs, already battered on the other side by the thrum of her heart. She hugged the bag close to her, as if it were a safety blanket. As if there wasn't something contained within that was meant to take a life.

Taking several uneasy steps forwards, she moved out from beneath the canopy that shielded the community centre's entrance and swung her vision across the surroundings. To her left a sizeable car park opened up in a flat sea of Tarmac and luminous white lines. Beyond that was a wire mesh fence, slicing off the grounds of the public building from a sidewalk, and throwing a checker pattern over the faint visage of houses in the distance. Further still she could see the empty rolling of hills, peppered with the angular shapes of crops. Rising above the flat darkness of the houses, the rough outline of the crops resembled the scaly back of a dinosaur, emerging from a level sea.

Far off, visible through the gaps where the hills overlapped and intersected, she could see tiny pinpoints of light. Had her senses not been so hyper-focussed, Jade might have mistaken them for stars. The lights of homes winked at her through the darkness.

Jade imagined the families in them. So much like her own, they were probably all asleep. Like she should have been.

The weighty pressure of loss was heavy in her chest as she thought of her family: Their horror at finding out that they would never see her again. And if they did see her, then it came at a cost. It meant that everyone else would have been dead; that she had even killed some of them. And by then, would she have even been the same person?

 _No_ , she again thought. _I wouldn't be the same. Nobody would be..._

Another heavy set of footfalls rang out as her slightly round frame advanced further away from the large angular building. Having swept her gaze and attention around the area, it felt like she had been out in the open for a long time, when it reality it hadn't been more than a couple of seconds.

Urgency plucked at her and she picked up her pace. While nothing had been said about loitering in the area, before the zone became "Dead", Jade didn't want to try her chances. After she had left the hall and made her way down the corridor, she passed a room filled to the brim with soldiers. What struck her the most wasn't their numbers, though. It was the cold, empty look in their eyes.

Spurred by thoughts of the soldiers, Jade broke into a jog and crossed the road. She needed to get away; as far away as possible. Before someone found her.

Her head lurched back as someone grabbed a fistful of her hair. Reacting instinctively, Jade dropped her assigned bag and lifted both of her hands. She opened her mouth to scream.

Before she could let out a sound, the grip left her locks, leaving a large chunk of hair to fall from her head. Roughly, the same hand came around her face and clamped down over her mouth.

A burning sear suddenly ripped across her throat, almost as if fire were parting her skin. A wet sound filled her ears as her arteries were slashed, before a horrible crunch popped through the silence of the night, as the blade broke through her larynx.

Her voicebox collapsed, leaving her unable to scream. A whimpering mewl escaped her lips.

Pain tore through her body, numbing her to the sensation of blood waterfalling down her chest.

The hand left her mouth and grasped the wrist of her still-raised right hand. The now familiar sensation of the blade again pierced the skin of her wrist, slashing up along the inside length of her forearm.

This time blood fountained into the air, spurting out a great distance and spattering the wall of an overlooking building.

Every pulse of her terrified heart shot another stream of blood into the air, her terror only increasing the tempo and the speed at which she bled out.

Jade's legs lost sensation and buckled beneath her.

Now laying prostrate on the hard ground, the muscles in her arms and legs began to clench and tremble as her body went into shock.

Around her head, locks of silver-grey dyed hair glowed in the moonlight, like a perverse halo.

Stooping down and looping their arms under her armpits, Jade's assailant began to drag her away.

In their wake, nothing but blood remained.

 **-38 Students Remaining-**


	9. 22nd July 2016 -02:12-

**Chapter 5: 22nd July 2016 -02:12-**

Johnathan "Johnny" Schultz (Boy #3) shifted listlessly in place and stared across the room, from his perch atop the dining chair. Despite the dim lack of light he could clearly pick out the features of the petite girl currently sat huddled on the wide leather couch.

Stephanie Abbott (Girl #3) sat with her knees pulled up under her chin, hugging her legs protectively close to her chest. Her small form seemed even tinier, with her diminutive posture, although that hardly seemed possible. At under five foot, the girl was the shortest person in their grade. There likely wasn't anyone that tiny in the grade below either. Or above, for that matter.

Her chin rested on the crook between her knees, showing off her strikingly pretty (at least Johnny thought so) features. Stephanie's skin was pale and clear, save for a small red spot on her chin, and her nose was slightly upturned. A small stud decorated the left side of her nose.

Moonlight seeped through the window behind her and fell on her glossy chocolate brown hair, pulled tight behind her head in a ponytail, save for the shorter locks of her full fringe. A shine glinted off of the two piercings through her right ear.

Realising that his gaze was lingering far too long, Johnny averted his eyes.

He was glad that he had been able to meet up with her — someone who hadn't completely lost their mind to fear.

Lingering outside the entrance of the community centre, Johnny had waited for her. Two minutes had felt like an eternity, the fear of being attacked from behind by a deranged classmate creeping and building slowly, until he finally saw the small girl emerge from the building.

It had taken him almost another two minutes to convince her that he wasn't playing. That he was looking to get a group together to try and figure out a way to escape (though how exactly they would do that was lost on him — the Program seemed impossible to run from). Even as he spoke, he realised the absence of substance in his words. He had nothing to offer her as an anchor of trust; could say nothing to convince her that he wouldn't just kill her in her sleep, or when her back was turned.

That was when another girl had emerged from the building.

Johnny could still hear her rummaging through the shelves of the kitchen, one room over. The girl with dyed black hair, and lipstick and eyeliner to match.

While not from his own class of 3A, Johnny wouldn't have been able to forget her in a hurry. Ivory Whitle (Girl #4) was their grade's resident expert on all things dark and spooky. Once upon a time, back before he was rotated out of 3C, Johnny had sat next to the girl in Math class.

Despite their past interactions being little more than her (in Johnny's opinion) purposely trying to freak him out, at that moment he could have kissed her full on the mouth. Ivory's interruption of his desperate ramblings to Stephanie was exactly what he needed: Another person.

If you were in a pair, there was no guarantee that the other person wouldn't stab you in the back. But with three people that all changed. There would always be two people watching out for one. It would leave less opportunities for betrayal. And with every person added, that number would continue to fall.

That was what he had been trying to say, but was previously too tongue-tied to get out.

The next student to depart, however, had thrown a spanner into the works of Johnny's plan. Sky Rochmil (Boy #5) had fled the second he stepped out of the community centre. The poor boy was traumatised; covered in the blood of Jacob Silver, who had perished right in front of him.

Johnny had been lucky: Sitting in front of him had spared him the gruesome visage of Jacob's collar exploding. Sky, on the other hand, was privy to a front row seat.

Driven by terror, Sky had sprinted through the streets of the small town, away from Johnny and his comrades. Their calling after him had only made it worse. Every word they shouted out, comforting or otherwise, spurred the boy on until his frenzied strides carried him out of their reach.

And by then it was too late. The building's all looked the same; the curse of cheap mass produced houses. Finding their way back to the community centre would have been a pointless endeavour. In the dark they had no way of identifying the boundaries of zones, on their maps. They didn't want to waste time searching, only to accidentally wander back into the starting point's zone, after it had been designated "dead". They had all seen what happened to Jacob, when his collar activated, and weren't prepared to run that risk.

So they elected to find a house. Walk as far as they could, and hunker down somewhere where they could assess the situation.

Which is what brought Johnny to his current position: Sat awkwardly beside an abandoned dinner table, staring over at his companion and struggling for something to say.

At least Ivory had something to keep her occupied. She insisted on searching the kitchen for canned food herself, leaving the pair to their own devices in the conjoined living and dining room.

Johnny moved his tongue about his mouth, as if trying to coax words out from hiding behind his teeth. Nothing formed, though. Not a single sentence.

In the end it was Stephanie who broke the silence.

"Do you think my friends are alright?" she asked, looking across the room at Johnny.

"I'm sure they are," he replied, tweaking his mouth into a half smile. Even as he said it, though, Johnny felt doubt creep across him.

He had no way of knowing who, if anyone, was playing. No way of being able to tell if anyone had even died.

At least until Mr Freeman broadcast their names at 6am, which already seemed a lifetime away.

"I just..." Stephanie took a breath, in an attempt to compose herself before continuing. "What's happening to everyone else? Everyone who isn't lucky enough to have met up with someone?"

"I don't know," Johnny admitted. "Honestly, I don't know... Shit, I didn't even know what to say, when I first tried to get you to come with me. I was panicking then. I can't imagine what all those guys alone out there are like now."

"Do you think we'd be able to get anyone else to join us?" she asked, this time turning her eyes away from him, as if staring at her own ideas of the future, in the distance. "Or... Or will it be too late? What if everyone is as scared as Sky?"

Johnny didn't know what to say. Words were lost on him as, for the third time that night, he realised just how futile his plans of escape were. But he couldn't give up hope.

He offered a comforting smile and tilted his head to the side.

"We'll find someone else," he said, only half believing his own words. "Your friends. As long as we're in a group they'll trust us. Then when we're all together we can figure this out. People are stronger than we give them credit for..."

"I hope you're right..." she whispered, under her breath.

"Stephanie," Ivory said, stepping around the doorway that led to the kitchen. "Can I ask you something?"

"Effie," the small girl corrected, before answering the question. "Sure... What did you want?"

"I'm sorry for being so upfront about this, but..." the pale, dark haired young woman paused out of a sense of compassion. "Have you checked your bag yet?"

Effie blinked a few times as the question hit her.

"Hey, there's no need for that," Johnny said, turning towards Ivory. "What kind of question is that?"

Ivory tucked her chin in to her chest and crossed her arms, defensively. "Sorry, but we need to know... What if someone attacks us? We have to know what we can use to defend ourselves."

"What do you mean 'If someone attacks us'?" he replied, harshly. "They're just scared kids! What, if they attack us, are we going to kill them?"

"I'm not saying that," Ivory responded, her voice level and calm. "I know that everyone is scared. Nobody in our grade is a killer; they don't feel like it. The energy is all wrong. But..."

"No 'buts'." Johnny could feel himself turning red as incredulous feelings brimmed inside him. "People being scared is _why_ we shouldn't be holding weapons. I mean, what if they think-"

"No, no, it makes sense..." Effie said, speaking up. "Some people might be too out of it to reason with... Sorry, I just... I didn't even think to check my bag. No— maybe I just didn't want to know what the weapon was?"

Johnny settled down and felt the heat drain from his cheeks. A tightness gripped his chest as he listened to Effie speak. He was struck by just how brave she was being. How level headed both of the girls were. They weren't letting their emotions get the better of them, unlike him.

Ivory watched as her companion bent down and retrieved her assigned duffle bag. The rolling sound of the zipper filled the air.

"Don't you want to see my weapon?" Johnny asked, making a point of taking the attention away from Effie. He didn't want her to feel self conscious, with them both staring at her.

"We already saw it." A lock of jet black hair fell over Ivory's right eye, as she cocked her head to the side. "When I came out of the hall, you were waving around that blowtorch like you didn't know what to do with it."

Johnny cast his eyes down, embarrassed. He had been so short strung that, when he attempted to talk to Stephanie, he forgot entirely that he was holding his weapon.

He didn't bother asking Ivory what her weapon was. She was smart enough to know that she would be expected to reveal what she drew. In fact, if Johnny remembered correctly, Ivory was one of the smartest students in the school. He recalled seeing her name topping out the league tables, along with that of a boy, also from 3-C.

Across the room, Effie gasped as she hefted her designated weapon out from the bag. Long and extremely top heavy, it consisted of a curved wooden shaft, tipped with a sharp wedged head.

Spying the weapon in the corner of his peripheral, Johnny lifted his head and turned his attention back to Effie. "What is that, an ax?"

It was. The kind used by lumberjacks to fell trees.

Seeing Effie holding it in her tiny hands made the weapon look all the more intimidating. Like it was taking her over.

"God..." Ivory whispered under her breath. Almost like she couldn't believe what she was looking at.

Effie stared at the weapon for several seconds, as if she didn't even know what it was. Stress ticked through her face as the clockwork of her mind set at a slow pace. As it all came into place, she began to shake.

Quickly setting down the ax, Effie pulled back her trembling hands and patted across the black material of her school jacket. Feeling around her inside breast pocket, her face twitched into an expression of relief.

Just as Johnny was about to question what she was doing, Effie spoke. "Sorry, sorry... I just... I need this."

Reaching into her jacket, Effie fumbled with a pack of cigarettes. When she finally managed to fish one out, her twitching digits moved slowly over the wheel of a cheap disposable lighter. The flint sparked three times before she eventually managed to catch the flame.

"I didn't know you smoked," Johnny said, watching as the orange light of the flame illuminated her features.

Her cigarette lit, Effie extinguished the lighter, leaving the afterimages of the red tinged tip as the only source of light in the room. "Yeah... Yeah I've smoked for a long time now. Not a lot... Just... Just when I'm stressed. About grades and my Dad and... And..." Tears welled in her eyes. "This."

A overwhelming urged filled Johnny to go over and hug her. He held himself back, however. He didn't know her; it would have been too forward.

What he didn't know, though, was that it was exactly what Effie wanted.

Dragging the cigarette all the way down to the filter, she exhaled a thick cloud of smoke from her nose. It swam through the air like coloured dye in a water tank, ringing around her head and obscuring her features. Casting down the spent butt, she crushed it under her foot and took a moment to compose herself.

 _Brave girl..._ Johnny found himself thinking, admiring her surprising resilience. Despite the horrible feelings that probably gripped her, Effie had managed to stop herself from having a complete breakdown.

Ivory walked over to her and crouched down beside the sofa. Reaching out, she placed one hand on her shoulder and offered Effie a comforting smile.

Johnny regretted not going over and giving her a hug.

Her comrade now settled, Ivory reached for her own bag and dragged it towards her. "Now it's my turn," she said, definitively, pulling down the zipper. The motion was slow and restrained as, despite her self-assurance and logical actions, nerves began to grip her.

Johnny held his breath in anticipation as Ivory's slender fingers delved into the bag. A strand of red hair, falling out of place from his pompadour, dropped into his vision.

A metallic flash glinted through the dim room, reflecting from the surface of the weapon that had been pulled past the zipper. In her hand, Ivory held a Colt M1911. Matt black, save for the brown crosshatched grip, the firearm was dense yet surprisingly slender. A .45 calibre semi-automatic pistol, it looked huge in her lithe hand.

Ivory swallowed had and set the gun down on the floor beside her. Reaching back into the duffle bag, she also pulled out a box of bullets and a thick book.

Eyeing the publication, Jonny lifted one hand and pointed at it. "What's with the book?"

Turning it over in her hands, Ivory examined the cover. "It's a manual... For the gun. I'm guessing in case someone doesn't know how to use a gun."

"That's... Weirdly thorough," Effie muttered, looking down at the other girl and knitting her brows.

"Well they need to make sure the kids actually know how to kill each other," Johnny said, bitterly. Then he cast his eyes to the side. "If they're not too bugged out on fear, and think to check their bags for more than the obvious."

"That's sick..." Effie muttered, looking away from the weapon.

The gun held some kind of repulsive force to it, that stopped Johnny from looking directly at it. Perhaps it was what the weapon stood for that was affecting him? A blowtorch and an ax could be used for other things, besides killing, after all. But a gun's purpose was to take life. The sight of it resonated with something in him, leaving him feeling nervous and afraid.

When he finally looked back at the two girls, he realised that Ivory was holding the weapon out to him. The handle of the gun jutted into the air, ready for him to take it.

"I think you should take this," Ivory said.

Flustering for a moment, Johnny again felt the oppressive force of the weapon. "No, no... It's yours. You shouldn't-"

The black haired girl interrupted him. "No. Take it."

"Why?" he asked, reaching out with hesitation.

"Because you don't want to kill anyone," Ivory said, smiling for the first time since Johnny had met up with her. "You have a good energy. And I trust you."

Johnny took the gun and caught himself wondering if the entire time she had been testing him.

* * *

 **[A/N: Do you feel like keeping up with the students? Keep track of the landscape and the Dead Zones with a handy map! I will be including the link to an image for the map on my profile!]**


	10. 22nd July 2016 -02:45-

**Chapter 6: 22nd July 2016 -02:45-**

The sound of dripping water rang down the empty alleyway, chiming off of the flat walls with a wet melody. Accompanying the rhythmic drip, the steady ministrations of controlled breathing leaked into the air.

Ryan Archer (Boy #6) was sitting crouched, his back leaning against the wall of the alleyway. His restrained diaphragm slowly descending, he maintained an air of quiet control to his movements and breathing. Positioned as he was, his entire body was swathed in shadow, the narrow walkway concealed from the light of the overhead moon.

Despite his apparent control, however, inside Ryan's mind was in turmoil. Ryan didn't agree with fear. The very idea repulsed him. He didn't like the methods that the government used to exert control on the citizens at the best of times. Now that he was at the centre of it, as a participant of The Program, he felt downright disgusted.

Unintentional tremors shuddered through his muscles, as he seethed with anger at the situation. Freeman was lording over them, controlling his other students with fear. The fear of death; the fear of murder; the fear of repercussions against their families. And Ryan hated him for it.

Thoughts and ideas for how to proceed stormed through his mind. In a perfect world, he would have rushed back into the community centre, and initiated a full-frontal attack on everyone responsible.

But the world wasn't perfect. No. It was cruel and spiteful.

The very nature of the "game" rendered responsive attacks on the government base impossible. The collar choking his throat even stopped him from running away. All it took was the push of a button, and his life would be no more. Snuffed out like the vulnerable flame of a candle.

Then there was the issue of his designated weapon. When their so-called instructor was explaining the rules of The Program, he had said that the weapons could be anything; the suggestion was even thrown out of a full automatic machine gun. Such an armament would have allowed him to storm the room, filled with soldiers, and mow them down.

But, as Ryan already knew, the world was not perfect.

Upon opening his bag, he found not a gun, but a knife. Flat faced, and with two sharpened edges, the driver's knife bore a grip slightly reminiscent of a knuckle-duster.

 _Still,_ he had thought, upon drawing it out of the bag. _At least it's something I know how to use._

Then he felt disgusted with himself, about the implications of the thought.

His classmates were good people. They didn't deserve to be in this kind of situation; flung to their deaths for little more than the government's sick amusement.

Ryan needed to figure things out. He needed to find a way out of the horrific situation; to escape and save as many people as possible.

He had never been comfortable with making snap decisions. He liked having a plan; thinking through what he was going to do next. Even when he competed in the regional martial arts competitions, he would always scope out his opponents, and concoct plans and tactics around defeating his opponents.

So, sitting crouched down the dark alleyway, he ran though all of the many possibility in his head. Projected the outcomes of every course of action he could take.

And every single one, no matter how thoroughly he planned, ended in his death.


	11. 22nd July 2016 -03:26-

**Chapter 7: 22nd July 2016 -03:26-**

Georgina "Gina" Stone (Girl #20) was annoyed.

With many of the other students falling into hopeless despair or a victimised anger, Gina's response could be viewed by many as relatively juvenile. Annoyance, of course, lacking a particular sense of scope and range. Insular in nature, annoyance belies a certain level of childishness. Instead of intense emotion smashing into her like a tsunami, the persistent lapping of waves weathered away at her patience. Emotionally stunted as she was, Gina turned her feelings inward, not yet having acquired the maturity to release them out.

Indeed, had anyone been able to see inside her head, they would have been shocked at her response.

However, that wasn't all. Something else about her reaction was particularly peculiar.

The nature of The Program, at its core, was designed to emotionally manipulate the "contestants" involved into playing. That much was true. However, the cause of her annoyance was less the result of her circumstances, but rather due to her present company.

Georgina was not feeling annoyed at having been included in her country's monthly "murder-contest". No, what she was finding particularly grating were the people that she found herself in hiding with.

Chelsea Wood (Girl #1), despite being her long time friend, was seriously trying her patience. The reason why was nothing particularly serious nor extravagant. In fact, it was something trivial: Chelsea had not stopped crying, for the past hour and a half.

Worse still was the presence of Girl #2, Taylor Time. Far from Gina's favourite person, she had been forced into bringing the other girl along by Chelsea.

 _"She's probably terrified! We can't just leave her!"_ she had said.

Had they stuck around the starting point longer, they may have even picked up more girls for their group. Gina was thankful that they hadn't. Lugging around two dead weights was more than enough.

After seeing Jonathan Schultz (Boy #3) leave the town hall, and start digging through his bag, they all decided to run. After all, what if he was planning on killing everyone as they left the building? Or worse.

It was an unspoken rule among the girls that they wouldn't let boys into their group. Boys did things. Things that would seem all the more viable as an option, given their ever-decreasing life spans. Things that the girls didn't even want to talk about.

It was for that very reason that Gina didn't try and reach out to Alex Kemp (Boy #1) or James Morris (Boy #2).

Well, that was only part of the reason, when it came to Alex. There was something about him that always left Gina feeling creeped out. He always seemed so vacant; sitting daydreaming to himself in class. Almost like no one was home inside his head.

Though now Gina was regretting not inviting James. The idea of having a boy on her side, so desperate to prove himself in some kind of faux-macho fashion, appealed to her far more than the whimpering of weak girls. At least then she could have wound him around her finger, to do exactly what she wanted.

The only benefit that she saw from inviting Taylor into their group was that the girl was packing. After digging through the other girl's bag, Gina had found three hand grenades. Combined with her own gun (a SIG-Sauer P230 9mm Short Semi-Automatic Pistol), this left them practically unstoppable. Even factoring in Chelsea's compound bow, Gina knew that anyone that tried to attack them was in for a rude awakening.

Any positive mood she may have felt, however, was soon diminished by the persistent mewling of her friend of ten years.

Chelsea had always been that way. Ever since Gina first met her, at the tender age of six, at one of her parents' garden parties, she had done nothing but drag her down. Sure they both came from money, but that shouldn't have obligated them to become friends. In fact, since Gina's family were the wealthier of the two, she justified their friendship as charity on her own part.

But still, despite Gina's gracious gift of friendship, Chelsea continuously let her down and ground against her last nerve. It didn't help that she was a crybaby. Even the smallest thing would set her off.

Gina could remember a time, back when they had first started highschool, when one of the guys on the basketball team had called Chelsea a dyke. She cried for at least three hours; most of which down the phone to Gina. But did she think that maybe there was a reason why she had been called that? Out-sprinting ninety five percent of the guys in gym, and always wearing those frumpy clothes did nothing for her image. At the end of the day, it was all her own fault.

The fact that she always decided to cry to Gina about everything was what really ticked her off.

But, as was the case with almost everything in her life, Gina fronted it out and put on a fake smile. She long ago found out that it was easier to catch flies with honey; though only if they had something of value.

Gina would never in a million years consider gracing the majority of her grade with even a fake smile. As far as she was concerned, they were little more than phlegm. She regarded them in the same way someone would look down on their own snot in a handkerchief, before disposing of it. So low was her opinion of her classmates, she very rarely paid anything even close to vague interest to them.

Taylor was one such classmate.

Before she stumbled across her at the start of the so-called "murder game", Gina would have been hard pressed to even remember her name. To her, she was just another nameless blur that passed her in the corridors.

The most Gina could even remember about Taylor was that she always wore bright red lipstick.

 _And even that isn't that exciting,_ she thought, making no effort to conceal the distaste etched into her face, as she watched the other girl.

Outside of her peripheral, she could still hear Chelsea crying.

 _Fucking hell, girl!_ Gina's mind shouted, bitterly. _Pull yourself together! We all have this just as bad as you, but you don't see me crying about it!_

Taking a deep breath to calm her nerves, Gina closed her eyes and folded her arms over her chest. She needed to keep everything level. Getting riled up over her own friend's patheticness wasn't going to do her any good.

However, the more she dwelt on the thought, the more irritated she became. And the more irritated she became, the more Gina's mind explored the possibilities of the "game".

How long would it be before the dead weight of her friend dragged her down, and she was murdered by someone — someone out to kill? And, for that matter, what benefit was there to keeping her around at all? Only one person could survive The Program; that was the single infallible purpose of the killing spree. If Gina let Chelsea live, just how long would she prove useful to her survival? Indeed, what if her friend got wise to her disdain for her, and decided to turn on her?

Swimming inside Gina's head, the possibility of murder soon began to appear very appealing. It had even begun to make sense.

The fact of the matter was that she needed to survive.

 _But..._

The only problem was Taylor.

Killing someone when they are the only other person around could be considered relatively easy. Factoring in a third individual, however, tipped the odds substantially out of her favour.

Gina had a gun, but she was hard pressed to actually use it. Firing a gun would be like announcing herself to everyone who might have been close by. And, should someone be drawn to the shots, she would be immediately identified as a killer. Fair game to anyone overly cautious, or interested in self-preservation.

Still, she had all but made up her mind.

All she needed, then, was a plan.

* * *

Chelsea Wood sat hugging her knees to her chest, as fat tears rolled down her cheeks.

A meek and unassuming girl, her freckle-dusted face was scrunched up and contorted from the sobs that wracked her body. The spots that dotted her cheeks stung with the damp bite of her tears, and her snaggletooth jutted unevenly from her wailing mouth.

Distraught was an understatement. The mere idea of having to kill her classmates — people that she saw every day — was so horrible that it was all she could do to stop her having a panic attack.

Harsh, strangled breaths shook her form, beneath St. Joseph's red and black track uniform, and her prized legs, having once carried her to so many victories, felt numb and useless.

Worse still than the idea of having to kill, and of being killed, was the sight of death. Having been sat diagonally in front of Jacob Silver (Boy #4), back in the town hall, she had been afforded an up-close view of the aftermath of his death.

The fact that he was someone she particularly liked only made it worse.

 _I mean, sure he was a bit awkward,_ she thought. _But he always looked so cute when he was sat there reading. And now he's... He's..._

Another fit of sobs spasmed through her.

Ordinarily the fact that she had a bit of a crush on him would have been inconsequential. However, flung into the overwhelming stress of The Program, everything had been dialled up to eleven. A myriad of emotions stormed through her and, as if clinging to every single past experience, a boy that she may have liked a little became someone whose death she was utterly distraught over.

The only thing that seemed to alleviate even some of the horrible pressure on her was the fact that she had found Gina.

While it was true that sometimes their relationship was strained (owing in no small part to Gina's bristly temper), they had been friends so long that merely having her around was enough to calm Chelsea's nerves.

She remembered a particular time, when they had first started highschool. Looking back at it, anyone else would have found it inconsequential, but to her it meant everything. One of the jocks in the grade above had called her a dyke, in front of almost everyone in the school. The jeers and looks she got after that were hell, barely dying out of public memory even currently. Back then, Gina had listened to her cries and stuck by her. And that meant the world to Chelsea.

So realising that her friend had waited for her, outside of the town hall, left Chelsea reeling with gratitude.

But that didn't do much to dispel the despair that gripped her. Knowing that, sooner or later, she would die. Those, after all, were the rules. If twenty four hours passed without anyone dying, then everyone would die.

Again trembling, she hugged her knees even closer to her chest and swept her tear-filled vision around the dark room. Taylor was sat in the corner, in a position extremely similar to Chelsea's own. Every so often, her eyes would turn suspiciously around the room, as if expecting either Chelsea or Gina to attack her. Gina was sitting with her legs stretched in front of her, crossed one over the other, fiddling with the zipper of her assigned duffle bag.

Closing her eyes and burying her head back into her knees, Chelsea again tried in futility to stop the tears.

"Hey," suddenly came a voice, restrained and level.

Chelsea opened her eyes and looked in the direction of the voice. It was Gina.

"Hey," she said again, her well spoken upper class voice slipping through the darkness. "Don't you... Don't you think we should try and find some food? I mean, the bread in our bags is something but... I don't think it will last very long."

Still trying to swallow her tears, Chelsea nodded out a feeble reply.

"Come on," Gina said, rising to her feet and making for the kitchen of the house they were hidden inside. "It'll help take your mind off of it." She turned towards Taylor and cocked her head to the side. "You stay here and keep watch, okay?"

The other girl muttered something in response, but Chelsea couldn't tell what it was.

Chelsea stood and began to make her way over to the doorway, wiping her eyes as she went. The steady stream of moisture running from her eyes began to dry. The fact that Gina was concerned enough about her to try and take her mind off of the situation touched her.

Following her friend out of the room and into the kitchen, Chelsea retched out her thanks. "It... It means a lot to me that you're... T-trying to h-h-help. I'm s-s-s-sorry I'm crying so much... I j-j-... Just don't know how to d-deal with any of t-this..."

Gina merely hummed, beginning to pace and potter about the kitchen. As she went, she opened cupboards and drawers, starting her search for long life goods.

"It all j-j-just feels so ou-... Out of control," Chelsea sobbed, again starting to cry. "I c-c-can't... I can't cope..."

Finishing opening another of the drawers, Gina sighed. "It's okay," she said softly, making her way across the kitchen towards Chelsea.

As her friend moved within arms reach, Chelsea flung her arms around Gina and nestled her head into the crook of her neck. Still crying her eyes out, she spoke into her friend's collarbone. "Thank you... Thank you..."

At first she didn't quite register the pain between her shoulder blades.

No, the first thing that she felt was a heavy restriction on her lung, as they filled with blood. Then the burn of pain came at her, smashing into her like a truck and assaulting her nerve endings. The knife that Gina had stabbed her with must have been extraordinarily sharp. Indeed, it had managed to pass through her skin and muscle tissue with barely any resistance.

So preoccupied with the harsh sensation ripping through her body, Chelsea didn't even consider why her friend had stabbed her. All her mind could focus on was the pain.

Opening her mouth, she was about to scream when Gina smothered her with one hand. A curious thing to focus on, Chelsea realised that the palm of her friend's hand was clammy with a nervous sweat.

Blood flooded her other lung as Gina stabbed her again.

Chelsea couldn't breathe. Starved of oxygen, her brain began to grow cloudy and before long she blacked out.

The last thing she felt was the agony of her lungs filling with fluid, as she drowned on her own blood.

* * *

Taylor Time didn't trust people.

Similar to how leaves fall in the autumn, and flowers blossom in the spring, this was just an irrefutable fact of her very nature. Mildly anti-social, and with a glancing touch of paranoia, she didn't relate particularly well to many of her fellow students.

Least of all Georgina Stone.

Something about the little princess rubbed her up the wrong way, bristling her hairs with unease whenever she saw her. Confused by the mere fact that the girl was even enrolled into a public school, rather than their resident private academy, Taylor always regarded her with an air of caution. The last thing she wanted was to get swept up into all of the unnecessary drama that seemed to follow Gina around the school like a bad smell.

The only reason why she had joined her group, after the commencement of The Program was because of Chelsea Wood. She was a nice girl; someone genuine who was always there to offer a friendly smile if anyone needed it (at least before being drafted into The Program). Why she even hung around with Gina in the first place was completely lost on Taylor.

When Gina had beckoned Chelsea to the kitchen, Taylor made sure to keep her wits about her. For all she knew, the stuck up girl could be trying to turn her friend against her.

Anything was possible.

At times Taylor wondered why she always expected the worst of people. She figured that it was because of her parents. Not bad people, by any stretch of the imagination, but their respective occupations did more than enough to expose their children to the worst sides of the human condition. Her mother a writer of horror, both psychological and otherwise, and her father a child psychologist, their frequent stories and discussions did little to quell the growing paranoia that afflicted her formative years. Rather they served to enhance it.

Because of that she had always held a vague air of resentment towards her parents. But now that she was enrolled in their country's annual murder game, she had never been more thankful. Suspicion was the nature of the game, and being too trusting could get her killed.

So when the two girls disappeared into the adjoining kitchen, she made sure to keep her attention focussed on the door. Ears pricked and nerves razor sharp, Taylor's hearing was honed into a needle point.

At first she only heard the muffled sound of Chelsea sobbing. That was normal enough. That she could deal with.

It was when the silence came that she grew uneasy.

Silence was suspicious. While it wasn't too large a stretch of the imagination for the others to be searching for food in silence, Chelsea's distress shouldn't have allowed for it.

Her eyes darted over the floor, coming to rest on Gina's bag. That was where the gun was. When all three had joined forces, she had all but refused to give it up. But now it lay abandoned in her designated bag.

Did that mean that she really wasn't intending to kill Taylor? Or was it all part of some clever ruse?

Her theories were interrupted as Gina slowly walked back into the room. Her pace was steady and her face a calm melancholy, but nevertheless something about her seemed off to Taylor.

When Gina finally reached the middle of the room, Taylor realised what it was. She had blood on her hand.

"Gina..." Taylor said, her voice purposely low, so as to hide her unease. "Where's Chelsea?"

She didn't have to respond, though. Taylor already knew.

And it was for that very reason that she was already moving across the room, towards the bag with the gun. Supposedly for self-defence, Gina had already loaded it earlier. Whoever managed to get hold of it first only needed to slide off the safety and pull the trigger.

The two girls dived for it simultaneously. Ripping through the fabric, their hands clawed in search of the grip.

All hands and feet, they struck out at each other, fighting desperately for control of the weapon.

Taylor managed to lay hands on it first. Fumbling with the gun, her thumb slipped clumsily over the safety. Angling it towards Gina, her finger squeezed against the trigger.

Gina's hands clamped down on her wrists and wrestled with her.

In the confusion, her hands were pointed downwards.

The dry pop of the gunshot cracked through the sill night air of the house, reverberating off of the walls before escaping through the poorly insulated glass and rolling through the arena.

Pain screamed through Taylor's body as the bullet ripped into her foot. Blood doused the floor and the recoil of the gun sent the firearm spinning from her grip, through the room and underneath the couch.

Ripping herself from the tangle of limbs, Gina dashed across to the couch and stuck her arm underneath it, desperately searching for the gun.

As she did so, however, Taylor was already on her way out of the door. Limping through the frame, she threw herself out of the house and disappeared into the night.

 **-37 Students Remaining-**


End file.
